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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28239255">where we'll go, i gloriously don't know</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ally147/pseuds/Ally147'>Ally147</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Series - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Australian Setting, Australian!Peeta, F/M, Fandom for Oz, Royal!Katniss, and an entire chapter dedicated to the afl, as in there's an absolute butt ton of swearing, hmu if you need a glossary of terms, i've tried to make this as outrageously australian as possible</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:26:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28239255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ally147/pseuds/Ally147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>ON TEMPORARY HIATUS UNTIL JUNE/JULY 2021</p><p>When he goes to sleep that night… he can’t. He won’t.</p><p>He’s probably asleep already, anyway. And having some really f*cking weird dreams.</p><p>She’s a princess.</p><p>A real f*cking princess.</p><p>But that can’t be real, right?</p><p>A princess.</p><p>He pulls his pillow over his face and screams into it.</p><p>
  <i>F*cking sh*tballs.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/evvykurler/gifts">evvykurler</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I went back and forth on whether to post this as a complete one-shot, or break it into chapters. Eventually, I settled on chapters, buying myself more time to actually finish this damn thing (it has, after all, been A Year).</p><p>First chapter is just an introduction. The next chapter will be up this weekend.</p><p>Unbeta'd. Unless, of course, you would like to beta. (Seriously, though, a beta would be great).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Far away, tucked into a narrow valley winding through a jewel-green hillside in rural Western Australia, was a small town called Margaret River.</p><p> </p><p>Margaret River was a special town, full of gifted people. Winemakers and cheesemakers, athletes and farmers. People who worked the land and didn’t ask for much in return. But the land gave back, and the town was known far and wide for its wineries and dairies, its surf and agriculture.</p><p> </p><p>But Peeta Mellark’s gift was not any of these. Sure, he enjoyed wine and cheese, sports and… farmers, but Peeta liked to say that his particular gift was kind of a best out of three option, if the other two options were sensing when ducklings were about to hatch and being able to grow body hair on command.</p><p> </p><p>(Though Peeta thinks the duckling power would have been <em>pretty bloody cool</em>. Might even be a time and place where the body hair one might come in handy, too. Like weird bar bets and setting obscure world records).</p><p> </p><p>He’s had many a debate on the subject, and he probably shouldn’t be so surprised that people would have such pronounced <em>opinions</em> on the subject. Select groups of people think his gifts are akin to a God’s, and Peeta thinks this comparison is downright foolish. Maybe he’s just desensitised at this point. Spending an entire life dedicated to the study and mastery of one subject is bound to lead to boredom. And Peeta didn’t really even get to <em>pick</em> this subject. He followed into it behind his father like a faithful golden retriever.</p><p> </p><p>So, where other people saved lives, crafted stories, made scientific breakthroughs to change the world for the better…</p><p> </p><p>Peeta tempered chocolate like a goddamn champion.</p><p> </p><p>Without breaking a sweat, he could make thousands of tiny, perfectly crafted chocolate bonbons a day. Ones that would make you weep in appreciation of the sheer artistry. Not a single one over or underfilled with dense, chewy ganache, not a single white or dark decorative chocolate stripe out of place, all the slivered adornments the exact equal size and dimensions of the one before it. Like magic, the patrons would crow, and Peeta would duck away from the attention like a timid galah. His boss told him once that his skill with chocolate was like a love language, whatever the hell that meant. Peeta blushed and kind of still wished he’d gotten the duckling power instead.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not like he doesn’t like chocolate. It’s fine, he supposes, but it’s not as good as, say, fresh, crispy bread with good butter, or a really good wave out Yallingup way. Some — read: all — of the people who come through the store frighten him with their ferocity for the stuff. Once you’ve seen a person drop a thousand bucks on not-as-big-a-haul-as-you-would-expect-given-the-amount-of-money-you-just-dropped of chocolate freckles, rocky road, bonbons, and assorted white, dark, and milk chocolate bars, the term ‘chocoholic’ kind of lost all meaning.</p><p> </p><p>And it was just such a dumb word, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>And in a town overrun each summer with wine snobs and kale and quinoa aficionados, Peeta has long had his fill of <em>dumb</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, some housekeeping I didn't do in the previous chapter:</p><p>This story was written for evvykurler (@creamytinydays) who won my Fandom for Oz auction earlier this year. The only prompt she gave was 'Australian Peeta', which led to this very loose retelling of how Aussie veterinarian, Mary Donaldson, met (and eventually married) Prince Frederick of Denmark. (There's also a few lines of Danish in this story, and I hope their meanings will be obvious within the story. If not, let me know and I'll provide the meanings).</p><p>The title comes from a song called 'Nowhere Without You' by Bob Evans, a West Australian artist who writes absolutely beautiful songs, and is just an all-round good dude.</p><p>Also, Margaret River, the chocolate and cheese factories (and pretty much every other location that gets mentioned) are actual places. I never lived there myself, but I lived close enough that hitting up the cheese and chocolate factory on weekends was a fairly regular tradition. However, I haven't been back since I moved six years ago, so some of this may be a little outdated.</p><p>Unbeta'd, as usual.</p><p>Lastly, like many others, I had a crap time this year. I finalised and submitted, then revised and resubmitted my Masters thesis, plus I got drawn into another fandom and stopped writing and reading everlark content altogether. Because of this, this story was written sporadically over the course of this year whenever I felt inspired, which is why I'm posting it so late in the year. I apologise unreservedly to evvylurker for how long this took, but I hope you (and everyone else) will enjoy it anyway.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peeta wakes early one bright, but otherwise nondescript spring morning, and sighs into his pillowcase.</p><p> </p><p>“Living the dream,” he mutters to himself as he sits, stretches, cracking his shoulders violently. “Remember it, Peeta. You’re living the… oh, God, the goddamn dream.”</p><p> </p><p>But his morning routines are things he’s managed to get down to a fine art. First off, he tugs a pressure sock over the nub of thigh left to his left leg and snaps his prosthetic into place, all without opening his eyes. Then, with a groan (not an optional step), he pushes off the bed and wonders at the ramifications if he calls in sick today. Or any day, really. That’s why it’s part of the routine, after all. Today, though, there’s a tour group booked for mid-morning, and there’s something about his puppy-dog face that means he’s always the one leading them. <em>Always</em>. Even the full sleeves of tattoos on both his arms haven’t hindered his image like he’d hoped. Maybe he’ll get another one — a giant, freaky-looking wasp in flight or something. Maybe that’ll do the trick.</p><p> </p><p>He splashes cold water on his face — a good place for that wasp tattoo, maybe? No one could possibly miss it there — and pulls on his (very loose interpretation of a) uniform. Black shirt and black pants, matching black apron forever stained in patches of melted chocolate and years of assorted seasonal fillings, no matter how many times he washes the damn thing. Not professional in the slightest. But then he’s never been all too sure about the overall professionalism of being a chocolatier. It still strikes him as a three-year-old’s dream job, so the lack of uniform shouldn’t really be a surprise.</p><p> </p><p>He steps outside, locks his door, and turns to face the cool spring morning, sucking in a deep breath in and out. A neighbour’s rooster crows. Black cockatoos flock high overhead and let out screeches that reach him dulled and almost musical. A cool breeze blows in off the ocean, a sliver of glitter on the horizon.</p><p> </p><p>“The dream,” he whispers to himself again. But this time, he thinks he might kind of mean it. Unironically. <em>Ugh</em>.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a short walk between his home and the factory, but it’s long enough that he’s covered in a swarm of bugs that really like the stickiness of his apron by the time he gets there. He unlocks the double-wide glass doors and pushes them open, gets swallowed in a cloud of the warm, sickly-sweet air he’s long managed to train his gag reflex to ignore.</p><p> </p><p>“Peeta?” his dad calls from the kitchen. “That you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, it’s me.” He stops at a sink and holds his breath as he washes his hands with the beyond-putrid jasmine soap his dad gets at the local markets, that no words of Peeta’s could possibly talk him out of. “Ryan not in yet?”</p><p> </p><p>His dad snorts. “Out sick, or so he says.”</p><p> </p><p>And unfortunately, that is not an uncommon occurrence. Peeta sighs to himself and asks, “Got cover?”</p><p> </p><p>“Delly’ll come ‘round at half-ten, she said.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs again, dries his hands with a piece of sandpaper masquerading as a towel. “She can’t come earlier?”</p><p> </p><p>“Wouldn’t think so, given that rug rat she has to take to school. And no, she can’t take that tour group for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“For the absolute life of me,” Peeta says, coming into the kitchen and finding his father elbow-deep in flour and cocoa powder and other sundry ingredients, piping cake mix into patty-pan tins, “I have no idea why you keep making me do those.”</p><p> </p><p>“You never read those anonymous feedback cards?” his father asks with an infuriating twinkle dead centre in his eyes. “You’re the most popular guide. Sales after one of your tour groups go up by about thirty percent.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s chocolate, Dad. It sells itself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Still, though. You’ve got a knack.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a knack, Dad. It’s pity.”</p><p><br/>
“Peeta,” his dad says firmly. “It’s been two years now. People aren’t looking at you like you think they are, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a bone-weary sigh. “About ninety percent of our customer base are tourists, Dad,” he says, so, so quietly. “They don’t know. They weren’t here. They’re always looking.”</p><p> </p><p>His dad frowns, sets the piping bag against the sink. The sink full of dirty dishes from the night before. A health hazard waiting to happen. “Is it that bad?” he asks. “Do you get harassed, or are people making fun of you, or —”</p><p> </p><p>“— No. Or, not really, I guess.” He slumps. “Maybe I am being paranoid. It’s just… it’s uncomfortable. <em>Really</em> uncomfortable, Dad. I hate wondering what they’re thinking, or if they’re ever gonna ask.”</p><p> </p><p>His dad nods slowly. “Okay. If you want, we can try to limit them, or keep you out the back most of the time, but Peeta…”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I know. I just… please, Dad. No more tours.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, fine. You don’t have to do tours anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta lets out a breath. “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you still have to do today’s.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shit — Dad!”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just you and me, plus Cash and Jo on the tills until Delly turns up. There’s no one else.”</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a whine. An honest-to-God <em>whine</em>. “Can’t you —”</p><p> </p><p>“— No. It’s two young women, Peeta, for half an hour. You’ll manage, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>He mutters choice words under his breath, where no one can hear. “Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good boy.” His dad nods to the other side of the kitchen, where a stack of chocolate truffle molds wait. “You better get to it. We’ve only got two hours before we open.”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta sighs and dutifully trots over to his station, separated from the main showroom by a sheet of glass, where he can be watched by the public like he’s a zoo attraction. His mind goes numb like it’s been doped up with novocaine, and the next few hours pass like they’re nothing, piping, filling, decorating, and finishing hundreds, thousands of perfect, shiny chocolate truffles.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, untold (three) hours later, the showroom doors open and a flock of people stream in, chirping and squawking like galahs, crowding around the large bowls piled high in white, dark, and milk choc-chips set out as samples. Peeta shakes his head and ignores the growing audience in front of his viewing window, which is hard to do when there’s a ton of kids on their school holidays pressing their snotty noses against the glass and tapping at it like he’s not entertaining enough.</p><p> </p><p>So they better get a real fucking kick out of it when his dad comes out of goddamn nowhere and taps on his shoulder, and his soul just about leaves his body as he jumps near enough on three feet in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus God, Dad,” he wheezes, his fist pressed against his heart. “What the absolute hell do you want?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing, personally,” his dad says, way too casually for Peeta’s liking, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. “It’s just time for your ten o’clock, is all.”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta blinks once, twice, three times. “My ten o-what now?”</p><p> </p><p>“The tour group, son. They’re waiting for you.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t make the face he’d like to, what with the crowd of people huddled in front of his window tracing every twitch of his hand and all. Instead, he makes a show of removing his apron and hangs it on a hook by the sinks. Another wash with that nasty jasmine soap, and he’s out on the showroom floor, dodging chittering customers clutching armfuls of giant freckles and bars of rocky road, to where a smiling blonde is waiting and waving like they’re long-lost best friends from a spot close to the cash register.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hej</em>!” she exclaims, then shakes her head, bright blonde curls flying. “No, that’s not right. I mean, hello. Are you Peeta?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah, I am.” He blinks down at her and her strangely lyrical, though wholly indefinable accent, and scratches the soft layer of stubble on his chin. “Are you my private tour?”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, fast, and Peeta wonders how someone can be <em>so</em> enthusiastic without giving themselves either whiplash or a concussion. “My name is Prin — Primrose. Just Primrose. Or you can call me Prim, if you like? That’s what all my friends call me.”</p><p> </p><p>The hopeful earnestness of her smile sets him weirdly on edge. “Uh, okay. Sure. Prim.”</p><p> </p><p>“And my sister will be joining us, too, but I think she is still over by those big bowls of chocolate chip samples.” He doesn’t think she’s blinked even once since he came over. If anything, her eyes go even wider when she asks, “How on earth do you make so much chocolate to fill those giant bowls?”</p><p> </p><p>He swallows a groan and waves at the piles upon piles of chocolate displays around them. <em>This</em> is exactly why these tours desperately need to go the way of the Tassie Tiger. This stilted bullshit that offers nothing to no one.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, there’s not exactly any shortage of chocolate in a chocolate factory, Prim.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh-huh, yes! And how much chocolate do you make every day?”</p><p> </p><p>He bites back and nearly chokes on another sigh. “I’m not actually sure how much in terms of, like, weight or volume or quantity, but I know we can turn over nearly a hundred thousand bucks a week in sales during peak tourist season, sometimes more.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Tak for kaffe</em>!” she exclaims, and Peeta’s still got no clue what she’s saying. “You must certainly be busy, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“I… I guess it keeps me busy, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Lille and</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>He blows out a desperate sigh of relief at the voice coming from behind him, in that same indefinable accent as Prim’s but somehow more lyrical, musical.</p><p> </p><p>“Katniss!” Prim exclaims. “Come quickly! You’re going to be late.”</p><p> </p><p>“Late? You are starting without me?”</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a long breath and turns very, <em>very</em> slowly; he’ll eat the tour time in any way, shape or form that he can get away with.</p><p> </p><p>But when he meets the piercing grey eyes of the short woman in front of him…</p><p> </p><p>Shit — what was he trying to do again?</p><p> </p><p>His mouth feels like he’s swallowed a bundle of cotton balls, and he can’t quite tell if his heart is racing or if it’s slowed to just shy of a complete halt. All he knows, the world has gone silent, narrowed to this tiny woman with a long, black-blue braid and a scowl that could kill a man.</p><p> </p><p>Dimly, from a whole other country away, Prim giggles. Peeta blinks, coughs, clears his throat, but the fog doesn’t pass. It’s like he’s been torn down the middle, and he can’t pull his eyes away from this woman.</p><p> </p><p>“No, no, the tour hasn’t started yet,” he says faintly. His voice might have even broken somewhere in the middle there, fucked if he knows. Might not have been a coherent sentence at all. “It’s… there’s a couple more minutes before we start. Are we waiting on anyone else?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, just us,” Prim says with a grin. “Peeta, this is my sister, Katniss.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Uh, nice to meet you, too. Katniss.” Peeta holds out his hand for her to shake. She stares at it a beat too long with eyes he’s dead certain are teasing the ever-loving shit out of him, then smirks and takes it in a grip that makes him blink.</p><p> </p><p>“You are the chocolate man, yes?”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta coughs. Again. What the hell is in his throat? “I… yeah, I guess I would be the chocolate man.”</p><p> </p><p>“Katniss,” Prim scolds, “<em>du er uhøflig</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hvordan</em>?” The dark-haired girl — <em>Katniss</em>. It’s pretty. Different — shrugs and crosses her arms. “Ruder to speak a language he obviously does not understand to his face, is it not?”</p><p> </p><p>“I am sorry for my sister, Peeta,” Prim says with a very half-hearted glare. “She is not the most sociable person in the world.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine. I’ve been called far worse than chocolate man before.” He coughs into his elbow again and clears his throat. There’s bound to be a cough lolly stashed away somewhere. “So, you two ready to get this show on the road?”</p><p> </p><p>Prim claps and bounces in place. Katniss pulls her arms tighter around herself and shrugs. The urge to smile like an idiot at her is strong, but he managed to tamp it down… maybe.</p><p> </p><p>“All right, then.” He hooks a thumb towards the door leading to the back rooms. “Let’s go.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He swears he’s about to fucking <em>expire</em> listening to Katniss moan as she takes these stupid, tiny, delicate bites.</p><p> </p><p>The samples were meant for later. Later! Not to nibble on while they loiter out in the cool midday sunshine, waiting for Prim to buy her unholy armful of goods. At the rate the girl is going, she’ll probably make up that thirty percent sales increase his dad mentioned earlier all on her own.</p><p> </p><p>Still though, he watches like some sort of fucking lecher, absolutely transfixed by the shape of Katniss’ lips and those filthy goddamn moans that have him thinking about things he hasn’t let himself consider in years.</p><p> </p><p> “Oh, <em>lækker</em>,” Katniss says in her lyrical accent, one slender hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Mmm. These are delicious. Not so sweet like European chocolate. Just the right blend of sweet and bitter.”</p><p> </p><p>He coughs into his fist — that butter-menthol hasn’t helped at all — and tries to ignore the pleased flush in his cheeks. “Uh. Glad you like it.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, without teeth. A solid plan. “Oh, I do! Very much so. You say you made these?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, and probably looks more like some sort of animatronic bobble-head toy than any real-life human. “About thousand a day, maybe more, all by hand.”</p><p> </p><p>“You must be incredibly talented, then.”</p><p> </p><p>That pleased flush runs all the way up to the tips of his ears, but honestly, he’s always been better at deflection. “That’s what they tell me.”</p><p> </p><p>She quirks her head, swallows. “You disagree?”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta shrugs and toes at the ground. “I just think it’s kind of a useless talent, that’s all. It’s not like chocolate has ever saved the world.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, but you mustn’t think that!” Prim implores him from out of nowhere, weighed down on both sides by large paper bags, full to the absolute brim. Peeta almost jumps; when the hell did she get back? “True, chocolate is a fleeting thing, but it offers quiet moments of… perhaps not happiness, but a removal from the bad things, even if it’s just for a little while.”</p><p> </p><p>He blinks. “I suppose I’ve never thought of it like that.” And he doubts he ever will again.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course you haven’t,” Prim says airily. “You’re too close. You can’t see the big things when you’re too close.” She flounces off again, to a very dark car with very dark windows at the very end of the very long, red-gravel carpark.</p><p> </p><p>“You should listen to her,” Katniss says with a sideways smirk at her sister. “She has always been the optimistic one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh, right. And what about you, then?”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs, but even that’s a bizarre picture of elegance, just a single shoulder daintily lifted and dropped. “Less so.”</p><p> </p><p>“And these days, I’m probably even less so again.” He huffs a laugh and crosses his arms. “So… did you enjoy this tour?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yes, of course I did.” She grins and holds up the little paper bag. “I also appreciate the samples, thank you. The brochures did not mention that there would be samples.”</p><p> </p><p>And he’s not about to tell her that there has never been a tradition of handing out samples and that there never will be again. “No problem. There’s more chocolate here than we know what to do with, honestly.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I have no doubt that you will find a market for it all,” she says with a wry smile as she glances back into the packed showroom, “but the generosity is appreciated, anyway. Now I must wonder if the wineries Prim and I will be touring tomorrow will offer the same.”</p><p> </p><p>From much further down, Prim lets out an ungodly shriek, disturbing a small mob of kangaroos sitting on the edge of the grass and the thatch of bushland at the carpark’s rear. She runs towards them, though they’ve well and truly hopped off into the sunset, kicking up a cloud of orange dust.</p><p> </p><p>“Katniss!” she yells. “Did you see them? <em>Kænguruer</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss smiles, this soft, indulgent kind of thing, and it’s like a punch to his guts. “We saw them on our drive down here, Prim, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>“We were in the car, silly! Not so close.” Prim frowns. “But I frightened them away.”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re skittish around people,” Peeta tells her. “Even us, and they’re kind of like our unofficial pets. But they’ll come back later. They always do.”</p><p> </p><p>Prim sets her jaw and turns back towards the bush. “I’m going to see if I can find them again.”</p><p> </p><p>It probably makes him an arsehole, this relief that floods him as Prim disappears in her quest for wildlife. Katniss gazes after her sister with a gentle sort of worry he never experienced with his own brothers, who were far more likely to ditch him in the middle of the bush and leave him there for the SES and other assorted search parties to find the next day.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat, coughs. “Don’t worry,” he says. “The bushland is maybe fifty metres thick, if that. There’s no way she can get lost. Plus, it’s not quite warm enough for snakes yet, so she doesn’t have to worry about that, either.”</p><p> </p><p>She glances at him. A gentle breeze catches her hair and sends it dancing on the air, and it’s all he can do not to choke again. “You know the area well?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods. “Yeah. I’ve lived here my whole life.”</p><p> </p><p>She sighs. “You are very lucky to live here. This is a beautiful part of the world. I think it would be among my favourite places.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh? You travel to a lot of beautiful places, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“It depends on the time of year,” she says with a shrug, like this is all old news, like she just up and travels for the hell of it whenever the fancy strikes, “but yes, we travel when we can. Prim and I go on a lot of different tours and learn many new things. Tomorrow we are going on a wine-making tour.”</p><p> </p><p>He almost snorts. “Nice life, if you can manage it.”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss cocks her head. “What do you mean by that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing, really.” He swallows a laugh that was probably going to be just a little bit condescending. “It’s just… you paid for the full factory experience, and you’re going on winery tours — <em>plural</em> — tomorrow,” he says with a shrug. “These things aren’t exactly cheap. Mostly it’s for celebrities since it’s so pricey, but you don’t look familiar.”</p><p> </p><p>Her grey eyes glitter. “No, I do not suppose that I would be a celebrity in Australia.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you’d be a celebrity somewhere else?”</p><p> </p><p>Her lips quirk in a strange sort of half smile. “Of a kind, perhaps.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you from, anyway?”</p><p> </p><p>“Denmark,” she tells him with a smile. “Have you ever been?”</p><p> </p><p>He rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m guessing you mean the country, and not the little town down south.”</p><p> </p><p>“You would be correct, yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t been to either, no, but I’ve heard nice things about both.”</p><p> </p><p>A wistful smile steals her face. “It’s a beautiful country. Very cool and very green, not unlike here. I’m sure you would like it. I think I might like the chocolate better here, though.”</p><p> </p><p>She grins and slips another chocolate truffle in her mouth. Peeta swallows, takes a step forward — for what purpose, his brain and body aren’t quite in firm agreement over — and is saved from any further potential idiocy by Prim re-emerging from the bushland, panting, twigs and leaves in her hair, and with a deep-set frown.</p><p> </p><p>“Could you not find them?” Katniss asks.</p><p> </p><p>“No. Lots of birds, though. A black and white one chased me out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. Magpies.” Peeta winces. “Forgot to warn you that it’s swooping season. There’s a couple of nests that I know of in that patch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Swooping season, you say?” Prim shudders and makes for the car. “I think I might hide, but it was very nice to meet you, Peeta! Thank you very much for the tour, I liked it a lot.”</p><p> </p><p>A deceptively casual-looking man in an Emu Export shirt and dark sunglasses emerges from seemingly out of nowhere and exchanges words with Prim in rapid fire not-English. He can’t even slightly guess what they’re saying, and it doesn’t settle him in the least when Emu Export glares at him like he’s committed some awful national atrocity. Emu Export opens the car door and allows Prim to slip inside, then recedes again into the background as if he just melted. Peeta tries not to stare. To pretend it’s a normal thing that happens, but it’s not and he can’t pretend that it is.</p><p> </p><p>He lifts a finger and points to the nearly black-tinted window. “What’s the deal with —”</p><p> </p><p>“— Any other question but that one,” Katniss cuts in with an odd, nearly sharp smile.</p><p> </p><p>“I… okay,” he says, as though that alleviates the burning mystery of it all even slightly. “Where are you off to next?”</p><p> </p><p>“We were told to visit a shop called Lloyds in town?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yeah. The little knick-knack shop. Keep following the store down. There’s a lot more to it than the front part.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will keep that in mind.”</p><p> </p><p>“And if you’re looking for lunch, the IGA in town has this really good salad bar where you can get these really big salad rolls made. And there’s this place on the edge of town, if you head back the way you came in, where the old rail station used to be, and you can sit by the river and it’s… it’s really, really peaceful.”</p><p> </p><p>“That does sound pleasant.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just maybe don’t forget the aeroguard. Mozzies are hellish down by the water this time of year. Don’t want you ending up with Ross River or something nasty like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss blinks. “I… what?”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Well, I must thank you once again for the tour, Peeta. It was very enjoyable.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wish I could take the credit, but it’s not hard to make chocolate enjoyable.”</p><p> </p><p>“I agree, the chocolate was very enjoyable, but I enjoyed the company much more.” She smiles, something small and secretive that makes him wonder if he’ll ever get the full picture she seems to be painting for him in very sparse, very infrequent centimetre-by-centimetre squares. “Goodbye for now, Peeta.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, tries his very best to ignore the strange swirling feeling in his stomach. “Goodbye for now, Katniss.”</p><p> </p><p>Emu Export doesn’t pop out from nowhere to open the door again. She retreats to the now-idling car on her own, pulling open the door and sliding in gracefully. Peeta frowns as the car pulls away in a plume of red dust, and piece by piece, the environment comes back to him, somehow dimmed and brighter at the same time. Bird chatter and breeze. Clear sky and sunshine. He lets out a breath that he feels like he’d been holding since before the tour started and trudges back inside, past the customers and through to his workstation.</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” his dad drawls as Peeta passes. Behind him, Delly — when the fuck did Delly show up? — snorts and pours another latte with a flower pattern in the foam — because there will almost definitely be a revolt if there’s no latte art. “She seemed… nice.”</p><p> </p><p>“She seemed like someone I’ll probably never see again,” he snaps, “so how about we just drop it?”</p><p> </p><p>His dad ignores his tone. “She wasn’t from around here, was she?”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta shakes his head. “Nah. Denmark, apparently.”</p><p> </p><p>“The country, and not the town down south, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta rolls his eyes. “Right.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Well… a good one to end on, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess. I mean it, though, Dad. No more tours.”</p><p> </p><p>His dad nods. “Yeah. No more tours.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your turn to man the espresso machine, then,” Delly chirps as the steam nozzle screeches. “If I’m taking your tours, you get to take the coffee snobs, with their oatmeal milk-this and their hazelnut syrup-that.”</p><p> </p><p>“So long as they don’t see my bottom half, Dells, I really don’t care.”</p><p> </p><p>Delly frowns. “Peeta…”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I know.” He pulls his apron back on and trudges back to his workstation, pastes on a smile for the onlookers waiting at the window for him to begin again. “You don’t need to start with me, too.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is kind of just... filler? And it's a little shorter than the others. I tried to bulk it up a bit, but I don't think it worked too well.</p><p>Unbeta'd. It's very hot here and it's making me hella slack.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, he spots her in the crowd gathered by the sample bowls again, feeding herself a steady stream of dark chocolate chips one by one. Prim isn’t with her this time — and didn’t she say something about a winery tour yesterday? — and she seems so deep in her pool of thoughts that he almost feels bad leaving his station and approaching her.</p><p> </p><p><em>Almost</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat and stands there like an absolute muppet. “Uh, hi again, Katniss.”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t turn, just takes the communal sample spoon and digs herself another pile of chocolate chips — milk, this time — that she sits in her open hand. He watches with his brows furrowed as she starts again, two little chocolate chips by two, and stares off into the cabinets.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat again, louder this time, and tries once more, “Katniss?”</p><p> </p><p>She turns with a start, her eyes wide and sharp, and her mouth set in a deep scowl that somehow suits her better than anything else even as it takes him right aback. Her chocolate chips go tumbling to the floor, and he watches them ping along the dark wood with a bemused smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Now you’ve gone and done it,” he says mildly.</p><p> </p><p>Katniss lets out a breath, closes her eyes and sets her now empty hand over her chest. “Peeta,” she says slowly. “I did not notice you there.”</p><p> </p><p>“I said hello. You must have been really enjoying the… chocolate.”</p><p> </p><p>“I apologise for the mess.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not the first to make a mess and you won’t even be the last person this very minute to do it. Are you okay? You seem kinda distracted.”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss shakes her head and moves away from the sample bowls, gesturing for him to follow without ever looking back to see that he is. He quirks a brow at the command and, as he follows because of course he does, wonders what the actual fuck is wrong with him that he’s so ready to follow her where-ever the hell she wants to go.</p><p> </p><p>In this case, to a secluded corner of the shop floor, relatively free from meandering tourists, with different flavours of chocolate sauces lining the tall back cabinets, and piles upon piles of chocolate-coated lollies displayed on a wide table.</p><p> </p><p> “I was not sure that you would be here,” she says once he’s reached her. “I had not seen you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’m here every day but the weekends.” He crosses his arms and frowns. “Weren’t you supposed to go on a winery tour today?”</p><p> </p><p>“In the afternoon,” she tells him with a dour look like he’s a moron for even suggesting it. “It is far too early for wine now.”</p><p> </p><p>Twenty percent of locals, eighty percent of tourists, and hell, even Peeta of a year and a half ago would strongly disagree. “Where’s Prim? Did she come back, too?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. She is visiting the dairy factories this morning.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t go with her?”</p><p> </p><p>“She will want to visit the animals while she is there, too, and they will not be able to tell her no. It will take forever.” She picks up a package of chocolate-coated snakes and gives the label far more attention than it deserves, considering it only has the date and batch number on it. “Are they good?”</p><p> </p><p>“The dairy factories? The two on the main road are basically the same. The one closer to town doesn’t have the yogurt, though, but it sometimes has good bulk packs of factory-second cheese.”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss hums. “Is it good yogurt?”</p><p> </p><p>“I always thought it was kind of grainy, to be honest. I think they freeze and defrost it. But if you can catch them when it’s fresh, usually on Thursdays but it’s not an exact science, then yeah, it’s pretty good. Fruity.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, and that weird fluttering in his gut gets more vicious by the second. “Thursdays, you say? I will keep that in mind.” She sets the chocolate snakes down again and brushes her hands off on her skirt. “We went to Lloyds yesterday. I liked many of the things they sold. You were right, though; the store is very long. Very quaint, too.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods and says without thinking, “And very expensive.”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss snorts, and Peeta has to bite back the ridiculous smile threatening to break out at the sound of it. “You are correct. Prim spent almost five thousand dollars in there on the pretty bedroom things, and she plans to go there again before we leave. I do not know how she plans to fit it all on the plane home.”</p><p> </p><p>Whether or not it’ll all fit on a plane isn’t as much of a problem or a red flag as: “I’m sorry. You said, <em>five thousand dollars</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss chuckles, pushes a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I know. Prim is a sweet girl, but restraint is not one of her stronger points.”</p><p> </p><p>Personally, Peeta thinks the problem is more having the extra lazy five-grand to drop on stupid fucking trinkets at the town’s main tourist trap, and not the lack of restraint. “You’re pretty well off, then, aren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>An odd glint appears in her eyes. “I did tell you, I am not a celebrity <em>here</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Neither am I. But I’m not dropping thousands of bucks in Lloyds, either.”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss waves him off. “Prim has expensive taste.”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta sighs. “She might like Providore, then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Providore?”</p><p> </p><p>“The shop kinda behind us. It’s a pretentious little food store. Very pricey.”</p><p> </p><p>She taps a finger against the table. “You do not like them?”</p><p> </p><p>“I never said that. They make a really good caramel sauce that we use on some of our cakes. It’s just that a two-fifty mil bottle of the stuff costs about twenty bucks a pop.”</p><p><br/>
“If it is a good product, I see no sense in being angry about the price.”</p><p> </p><p>“You probably wouldn’t, Miss I’m a Celebrity Elsewhere.”</p><p> </p><p>“Forgive my bluntness, Peeta, but your products are not exactly cheap, either. Prim bought two bags of chocolates yesterday and it cost her four-hundred dollars.”</p><p> </p><p>“Point taken. But that’s kind of the running theme in this town. It’s very good to you if you’re wealthy, not so much if you don’t have a lot to spare.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think you just described most places.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then I guess the whole world’s kind of a bummer, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t say anything, just looks oddly thoughtful.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat. “Where are you staying, anyway?”</p><p> </p><p>“Basildene Manor.”</p><p> </p><p>His jaw drops. “The fucking mansion?”</p><p> </p><p>She rolls her eyes. “It is not <em>that</em> large.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only someone who lives in a damn castle would say that.”</p><p> </p><p>Again, she says nothing. Peeta’s eyes narrow.</p><p> </p><p>“Who exactly are you, Katniss?</p><p> </p><p>“For now, I am little more than a tourist.”</p><p> </p><p>“And when you’re not?”              </p><p> </p><p>“Who I am when I am not here will likely never matter to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You matter,” he says before he can stop himself.</p><p> </p><p>She just smiles, a little sad and a little something else, and just like that, the conversation dies.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He’s up at the absolute arse-crack of dawn the next morning to beat the springtime tourists to the local Saturday markets in town.</p><p> </p><p>He’s moderately successful. Instead of two hundred of them, there’s only forty. The grapes that always seem to be gone by seven in the morning are still there, if a little picked over. The woman selling avocadoes as big as emu eggs still has a tray of them left. The man who grows lemons with the best zest Peeta has ever tasted still has his ute trailer full of bags of them.</p><p> </p><p>The place, though, is absolutely <em>buzzing</em>, and it’s got nothing to do with Mr. Longan and his local, organic honey farm.</p><p> </p><p>He stops last by Mrs. Russell, a gossipy old woman with hair as red as the strawberries she sells. As soon as he’s within her earshot, she shoots forward with more energy and tenacity than her frail body suggests, and looks up at him with eyes comically large and wide beneath her thick glasses.</p><p> </p><p>“Peeta? Did you hear?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Mrs. Russell.” He hefts two punnets of strawberries in both hands and inspects them closely. “I don’t think I have.”</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Russell leans in, beckons him to meet her in the middle. “There’s <em>royalty</em> in town.”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta rolls his eyes. “Like, Hollywood royalty, or <em>royal</em> royalty?” Because the former, strangely, isn’t all that uncommon.</p><p> </p><p>“Like actual, crown-wearing royalty, Peeta.” Mrs. Russell claps her hands together and makes one of those awful happy-squeal noises. “Imagine it!”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t have to reach too far back to remember the literal Queen of England jetting into Busselton, Mrs. Russell. Besides, I was there.”</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Russell purses her lips. “You’re far too young to be so jaded, young man.”</p><p> </p><p>“When were these strawberries picked?” he deflects.</p><p> </p><p>“Last night, as you well know.” She sniffs. “Only the freshest. Are you doubting me, Peeta?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I could never, Mrs. Russell.” He balances the two punnets in one hand while the other digs in his pocket for a ten-dollar note to pay for them. “See you next weekend.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll try and find out some more about this royalty situation, though you might be better placed, what with that tourist trap you work at.”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta rolls his eyes. “I’ll keep an ear out, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Good boy. And… Peeta?”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs at the new, downwards inflection in the woman’s voice, and knows exactly where it’s going. “Yes. Mrs. Russell?”</p><p> </p><p>To her credit, the woman does at least hesitate. “My grandson, Austin, he's been asking about the little grommets’ surf classes this summer. Are you —”</p><p> </p><p>“— No,” he cuts in curtly, and any good mood he might have been in takes a swift, dark turn. “Ask Ryan, maybe. I’ve got nothing to do with the grommets anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Russell’s lined face softens, and she reaches out to set a hand that feels like ice on Peeta’s arm. “The kids loved you, Peeta. You really should —”</p><p> </p><p>“— I’ll think about it,” he quickly lies. He tears his arm away and shoves the strawberries into his satchel bag. “See you next weekend, Mrs. Russell.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Queen Elizabeth II actually did fly into Busselton, WA, in 2000 (Busselton is my former hometown, a seaside town about three-hours south of Perth, and about forty-five minutes away from Margaret River). My year-five class (and a whole heap of others from other schools in the area) went out to greet her. To this day, I have no idea why the hell she was there.</p><p>Also, chocolate-coated snakes... lolly snakes. Not... actually snakes. We're not that weird.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Apologies in advance to any potential Collingwood supporters who may stumble through here :/</p><p>Also I really kinda rushed the last part of this chapter done, so sorry if it reads weird. I'll probably come back in later and fiddle with it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peeta spends a good portion of the following week in a weird little spiral he thought he was long escaped from, and he certainly doesn’t <em>mean</em> to find himself at Settlers Tavern come Friday evening. It’s just one of those things that kind of happens, but it’s not a thing he’s running to rectify, either.</p><p> </p><p>He keeps his eyes glued to the telly mounted on the far wall, where a footy game is about ready for bounce down. He’d almost forgotten that the prelims were starting this weekend. Tuned right the hell out of the regular season back around round ten when it became clear that his beloved Dockers weren’t going to bother trying this year.</p><p> </p><p>But for tonight, it’s perfect. It loud and sticky and stinks that special sort of unwashed bar stink that promises to absolutely <em>demolish</em> his weird little spiral. For now, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>He shifts on his tacky stool, his jeans sticking in place and leaving patches of fluff behind, and takes another deep swig of local ale. Mrs. Russell’s words and the echo of the absolute bomb they set off in his brain last week fade into an indefinable hum that plays quite nicely with the bustle of the tavern.</p><p> </p><p>The bartender takes away his empty bottle and sets another full one in front of him. Peeta nods his thanks and turns to face the telly, heaving out a great, laboured sigh as the game starts.</p><p> </p><p>God, he hopes Geelong fucking <em>annihilate</em> Collingwood.</p><p> </p><p>By the end of the first quarter, Geelong are up by three, so it’s not an annihilation quite yet, but Peeta is on his way to <em>just buzzed enough</em> that he doesn’t care too much about the game, or anything else, really.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe a little past that point, because the bartender pointedly drops a bottle of water in front of him next time and fixes him with a glare until Peeta twists the cap open and begrudgingly takes a gulp.</p><p> </p><p>“Take it easy there, Peeta,” Haymitch grumbles. “You’ve got all night.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s off and serving someone else before Peeta can retort that <em>no</em>, he does not, in fact, have all night, what with his desperate need to have at least eight hours sleep coupled with his infuriating inability to wake up any time after five in the morning. Not that it matters, really. It’s not like Haymitch has ever been out to hurt him, and Peeta’s head is swirling just enough for him to think that, yeah, maybe the old man has a point.</p><p> </p><p>He’s mid-chug when her voice makes him choke. “Is this seat taken?”</p><p> </p><p>She’s a little bleary and foggy in the dank yellow bar lights, but it’s absolutely her. And she’s smiling at him like he didn’t just almost die in the dumbest way possible.</p><p> </p><p>He wipes the extremely attractive spittle from his chin. “Katniss?”</p><p> </p><p>She slips daintily onto the unoccupied, and much, much stickier stool beside his. An oddly chivalrous urge strikes him then, to sweep her off that stool and onto his vastly less sticky one, but as soon as she turns and glances at him, he forgets everything except the colour of her eyes and the shape of her smile.</p><p> </p><p>He blinks until she comes back into focus. “What are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>“I followed the sound.” She winces as a cheer goes up for another Geelong goal. One that Peeta enthusiastically, obnoxiously takes part in. “It is very loud in here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Friday night footy,” he says as he sits, gesturing with his beer to the TV mounted on the far wall. “Prelims for the grandie in a couple of weeks.”</p><p> </p><p>She blinks at him. “I do not understand.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs, peels at the label on his water bottle. “Football,” he says, slurring only a little bit. “The preliminary finals are starting this weekend to find out who will be playing in the grand final next weekend.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, this is the Australian football?” She smiles and turns towards the telly. “The hotel manager was speaking of this earlier. Who are you hoping to see win?”</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs. “Geelong by default, I guess. Can’t stand Collingwood.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is wrong with Collingwood?”</p><p> </p><p>“I…” He stops, brows furrowed, and takes another gulp of water. “It’s hard to describe unless you’re kinda attuned to the weird AFL culture. I don’t actually think anyone out of Victoria likes them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, who do you normally like?”</p><p> </p><p>“Me?” Peeta stares down at the sticky benchtop, because near a close to a decade of getting the absolute piss pulled out of him for his AFL affiliations has taught him to say this quietly. “Dockers.”</p><p> </p><p>The guy on Peeta’s other side huffs a laugh. “Useless bastards, they are.”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta’s about ready to go all in, because no one gets to call his Dockers <em>useless bastards</em> except him, until Haymitch interjects. “No blasphemy in this bar, thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>The guy scoffs. “Oh, come the fuck on, Haymitch. Your precious bloody Fyfe is from fuckin’ Lake Grace, not here.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a body of water and a bird’s name. Near enough in my book.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever. Dude’s good enough to rope in two Brownlows on his own but the team couldn’t buy a fuckin’ flag if they tried.”</p><p><br/>“Oi! Do not be starting this shit in my bar again, you hear me, Jack? You want a reminder of what happened last time?”</p><p> </p><p>Jack sneers and goes back to his beer, eyes swivelling to the screen. Peeta glares at the back of his head for a long minute before turning his attention back to Katniss.</p><p> </p><p>She’s watching him with a wry sort of smile. “It is serious business, then, this football?”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta sighs. “It’s dumb as hell, but in these kinds of crowds, yeah. It’s our state’s main sport, but it’s kinda a different story if you head east. More NRL territory. Hell, we don’t even have an NRL team anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“Peeta,” Haymitch grunts. He sets another bottle of water in front of him and fixes Katniss with an oddly scrutinising expression that she doesn’t shy away from. “Who’s your bird?”</p><p> </p><p>“My name is Katniss,” she says, chin held high.</p><p> </p><p>“Katniss who?”</p><p> </p><p>“Katniss Everdeen.”</p><p> </p><p>Haymitch furrows his bushy brows and leans in, crossing his arms on the sticky bench. “You’re not from around here, are you, princess?”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss goes rigid at Peeta’s side. “No,” she says eventually. “I am not.”</p><p> </p><p>“Accent’s Danish, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“You are correct.” Her eyes narrow. “Have you been?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not recently.”</p><p> </p><p>An odd tension that wasn’t there before settles over them. Peeta darts his gaze between the two, who seem to be locked in some kind of weird standoff that doesn’t even slightly involve him.</p><p> </p><p>He coughs to draw their attention and offers, “Uh, Katniss has never seen an AFL game before.”</p><p> </p><p>In unison, their heads swivel to face him, and whatever tension was there before disappears like water down a drain.</p><p> </p><p>Except when you’re draining water, there’s always little scraggly bits that don’t want to go, that cling to the sides and leave nasty little water stains if you don’t wipe them up absolutely immediately.</p><p> </p><p>Haymitch sighs, picks himself up from the bench and wipes his hands on a filthy rag that definitely isn’t up to code hanging from his belt. “Well,” he says, letting out a low, probably flammable breath, “she’s picked a hell of a night to poke her head in, that’s for sure. Who’s tickled your fancy tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss’ eyes narrow even further. “Excuse me?”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta stifles a chuckle and drowns it in another sip of water. “He’s asking which team you’re going for.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh!” She relaxes, kind of. “Well, Peeta tells me that he will go for Geelong by default, so perhaps I will, too?”</p><p> </p><p>Haymitch grunts. “Y’know, princess, ordinarily I’d tell you to make up your own mind, but in this case…”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck Collingwood?” Jack offers.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah!” Haymitch thunders, slapping the sticky benchtops with a wide, open hand. “Fucking fuck those fuckers.”</p><p> </p><p>Katniss flinches closer and closer to his side with each bellowed expletive. Peeta chuckles and lets her, because he’s just drunk enough to forget that, really, he’s only known her for a week, in small, hour-long, sometimes minutes-long bursts, and any minute now one of them is going to realise how fucking weird it is.</p><p> </p><p>And it probably won’t be Peeta.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t mind him,” Peeta tells her. “Bark’s far worse than his bite.”</p><p> </p><p>“I will have to take your word for it.” She scowls at Haymitch as he walks away. “He is an odd man.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but he’s kinda a local treasure, so he gets away with pretty much everything.”</p><p> </p><p>She says nothing, only flags down another bartender and asks for a bottle of whatever’s local.</p><p> </p><p>“Explain to me the rules of this game,” she demands, smacking her lips together after the first bitter sip.</p><p> </p><p>He quirks a brow. “We’re gonna be here a pretty long while if I try to do that.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles at him, and<em> God Fucking Damn It</em>. “I have time.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You know,” she says, a few beers for her and another one for him later, as the game draws down to its final, tense moments, with only four points separating the teams. “I came in to the chocolate factory see you again this week.”</p><p> </p><p>“You did?” He blinks, combs back through his memories of the past week and comes up with nothing but grey fuzz. Kind of a surprise that he went to work at all, really. “I don’t remember that.”</p><p> </p><p>“You likely would not. I do not believe you saw me at all, even when I came up to your window.” She looks amused, eyes bright and sparkly and just on the sober side of tipsy. “You seemed quite distracted. Were you making difficult things?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, no harder than anything else, I guess. It’s just been…” He chuckles and takes another drink, feeling vastly, infuriatingly more sober. “It’s been a pretty crappy week, to be honest.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Well, would you like to talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, but maybe some other time.” He takes another sip and sighs. “Definitely not tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>A roar goes through the crowd, a glass somewhere smashes against the floor, and a nameless someone screeches out, “Oh, fuck yes, Ablett <em>you little ripper</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>A goal right on the final siren, and Geelong steals their place in the grand final. What wonderful poetry. Peeta leaps up and roars along with the rest of them. <em>Fuck</em> Collingwood.</p><p> </p><p>Katniss laughs, low and smoky. “Are you pleased with the outcome?”</p><p> </p><p>Peeta grins as he sits back down. “Collingwood lost, so yes. Good news all round. What about you? Did you have fun?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yes,” she says, falsely bright. “Your AFL is a fascinating sport. So… rough.”</p><p> </p><p>He chuckles and shakes his head. “You didn’t like it at all, did you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think I did, or perhaps that I could. Maybe I would like it more somewhere quieter.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is loud in here,” he concedes. “But if you’re watching with a fan, it’s probably always gonna be loud, no matter where you watch.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll have to keep that in mind, if I ever come back during the regular season. Perhaps to watch that team you mentioned liking before.” She cocks her head to the side, and the streetlights glitter in her wide, shining eyes. “The Dockers, was it? Perhaps I could watch them with you someday. Somewhere a little more private.”</p><p> </p><p>He very indelicately chokes on his spit. “I’m no quieter!” he exclaims without thinking. “Especially not when I’m watching them! Fucking hell, you’d <em>hate</em> watching footy with me!”</p><p> </p><p>The look she gives him then makes him wonder exactly what kind of idiot she’s turning him into.</p><p> </p><p>He coughs again and slips off his stool, setting way too much money on the bench for Haymitch and leading her out into the cool night air. “So… you got a way of getting back to your mansion?”</p><p> </p><p>She rolls her eyes. “Yes, and it is not a mansion, Peeta.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only someone who lives in an even bigger mansion would say that.”</p><p> </p><p>She surveys him up and down. “You are quite drunk.”</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. “Nah, not really. Haymitch doesn’t really let me get drunk.”</p><p> </p><p>She cocks her head to the side. “Does not let you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. There was this time a few years ago where I… I used to be… I dunno. Kinda a real fucking spanner.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like the tool?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, exactly like the tool. Now, I have to go buy my own goon if I wanna get proper arse-faced anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head. “I take years to learn English properly, but I still think you are speaking another language entirely.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, we’ve got our own twist on it, that’s for sure.” He slips his phone from his pocket and sets about arranging an Uber. “You sure you’re good to get back?”</p><p> </p><p>“I will be fine, but thank you for asking.” Before he can do or say anything even remotely chivalrous, she lifts up on her tip-toes and drops the quickest, most fleeting kiss to his cheek, plucking those thoughts and every other right from his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Goodnight, Peeta,” she says, low near his ear. “Thank you for keeping me company tonight. I hope to be able to see you again soon.”</p><p> </p><p>It takes a good, long set of moments before he can make words again. His cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “You, uh… seem to have this real uncanny knack for finding me, so I’m pretty sure you will.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles and turns to the full car park at the bar’s rear, where that same black car with the certainly-not-legal-dark tinted windows she hopped into last week. He watches as she waves a final time and hops in, and the car rumbles away, taking her with it like she didn’t just make his brain explode.</p><p> </p><p>He continues to stand there, grinning like an absolute moron, until his Uber pulls up and honks its horn, sending Peeta flapping to the ground like the utter goose he is.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Let me know if you require any definitions or clarification :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Apologies for the delay, all. I had up to this chapter pretty much entirely pre-written, but everything after this is kind of in pieces that I'll need to string together.</p><p>Also I haven't proofread this, so let me know if there's any glaring errors.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He tries not to be <em>too</em> obvious about the way he keeps looking for her now.</p><p> </p><p>Tries, and very much fails.</p><p> </p><p>He’s never done, or been anything like this before. Hell, he’s not even all that sure what <em>this</em> is.</p><p> </p><p>(She really has turned him into a special kind of stupid).</p><p> </p><p>And then, he’s not even sure if this is even a little bit warranted. It’s not like he really even needs to keep looking for here. Luck or some other nebulous, indefinable thing keeps putting her in his path, and he figures if he just waits, she’ll show up again eventually.</p><p> </p><p>But, <em>shit</em>, the waiting part is like being stabbed in the guts a thousand times with a pointy toothpick.</p><p> </p><p>“Looking for someone?” Ryan teases.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off, Ryan,” he says absently, climbing on tiptoe to see through the viewing window and above the heads of his rapt audience.</p><p> </p><p>“Delly already told me, you know, about that girl you gave the tour to last week. Said you looked cute together.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m serious, Ryan, shut the fuck up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Careful, Peeta,” his father calls reproachfully. “People can still tell what you’re saying through that window, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, Peeta,” Ryan taunts. “What would your girlfriend think?”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t answer, firstly because the word <em>girlfriend</em> — which he really should at least <em>try</em> to refute before Ryan gets any ideas — has his stomach doing a very elaborate gymnastics routine. And secondly because she’s right <em>there</em>, her dark black braid swinging like a vine down her back, parked once again by the massive bowl of dark chocolate chips.</p><p> </p><p>And third, because she’s staring straight fucking at him, a tiny smile quirking her lips.</p><p> </p><p>She waves, and he must make a sound — not an overly attractive or coherent one, he’s sure, but enough to grab his father and brother’s attention.</p><p> </p><p>Ryan snorts. “There better be a pretty girl responsible for those dying whale noises, Peet, otherwise I won’t know what to think of you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is she there, Peeta?” his father asks kindly.</p><p> </p><p>“Guh.”</p><p> </p><p>His father nods sagely. “Well, then, off you go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Guh?”</p><p> </p><p>“You heard me, son. Don’t keep the nice lady waiting.”</p><p> </p><p>“Guh.”</p><p> </p><p>He sheds his apron, washes his hands, and holds no recollection of either activity as he leaves the prep room and enters the showroom, sidling up beside her before he can decide whether it’s even a good idea or not.</p><p> </p><p>“Katniss,” he squeaks as he approaches<em>. Fucking hell</em>. “You, ah… must really like the… chocolate here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Peeta.” She smiles again, a small, hesitant half-smile that stops his heart in place. She fingers the strap of the bag hanging over her shoulder. “I was wondering if you have a moment to talk?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” He coughs into his closed fist and leans against the bench, crossing his arms like he’s <em>cool</em> or something. “Sure. What about?”</p><p> </p><p>She glances from side to side, then leans in close. Maybe a little too close. “There are some things I feel I must tell sooner rather than later.”</p><p> </p><p>He swallows. “Oh, yeah?” Oh, who the fuck is he feigning disinterest for? “Like what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Name a time and place, Peeta, and I will tell you everything.”</p><p> </p><p>He furrows his brow. “Uh. Okay. I… did you and Prim end up down by the river the other day?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she says with a smile. “We both thought it was beautiful.”</p><p> </p><p>“I finish here at five. Meet me down by the river at six, okay? I’ll bring some dinner for us.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, smiles a strained little smile. “I will see you then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” He coughs again. Where are those damn cough lollies now? “I… I have to get back to work now.”</p><p> </p><p>Her grey eyes widen. “Oh, of course. I am sorry for disturbing you.”</p><p> </p><p>“No!” he rushes to say. “You’re not… I like when you disturb me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he says, letting out a low breath. “Really.”</p><p> </p><p>After that, the rest of the afternoon passes by in that weird state where it feels like it’s flying and crawling at the same time. When the clock hits five, Peeta flies out of there like a seagull on chips and runs back home to pack a picnic basket that he puts simultaneously far too much and not thought and time into.</p><p> </p><p>He probably should have asked first whether or not she likes prawns.</p><p> </p><p>In the flimsy seven-and-a-half minutes it takes to drive from his house to the river, he can’t recall taking a single breath. Hell, by the time he gets out of the car, grabs the basket, and finds her standing beside the old train carts where a station used to be, he’s decently sure he’s died and gone… well, not really heaven and not really hell, either. Purgatory, then, with a very pretty, very strange girl that seems to like his company for some unfathomable reason.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, there,” he says. “Find the place all right?”</p><p> </p><p>She snorts a tiny, huffing laugh. “I have been here before, Peeta.”</p><p> </p><p>Surely if he actually <em>was</em> dead, he wouldn’t keep saying the most heinously embarrassing things, would he? “Oh, right.” He pauses, glances at her. Maybe they do need chocolate between them? Or food, at least. He hefts the basket up between them. “So, you like prawns?”</p><p> </p><p>“I like almost everything, Peeta.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s good.” A mosquito buzzes past his ear. Peeta comes very close to slapping himself in the face. “Should we… I dunno, go sit?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, in a moment. I just…” Katniss sighs, takes him by the wrist and leads him to a copse of peppy and eucalyptus trees covered in bridal creeper, away from the families setting up for their own picnics by the water. “I need to tell you, now, before we go any further.”</p><p> </p><p>“I… ‘kay.” He sets the basket on the ground by their feet — <em>which somehow are only about two centimetres apart, apparently </em>— and tries to ignore whatever the hell is going on in his heart. “What’s on your mind?”</p><p> </p><p>“Peeta,” she says, and for a split second, Peeta is genuinely concerned that she might start crying. “I apologise, but I have not been entirely honest with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I… well, we don’t know each other that well yet,” he says, rubbing with one hand at the back of his neck while the other taps against the steel of his prosthetic, hidden well by the thick denim of his jeans. “It’s not like you really owe me anything, and there’s things I haven’t told you, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, this is not some small, insignificant thing.” She stops, scowls to herself, sucks in a deep, desperate breath. “You must promise that you will not change your mind about me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not all that sure that I’ve made up my mind about you at all,” he jokes, weakly. “What is it, Katniss?”</p><p> </p><p>She tips her head, and sounds absolutely miserable as she says, “I’m a princess.”</p><p> </p><p>A beat, then — “I’m sorry. I think I misheard. You’re a what?”</p><p> </p><p>“A princess.” She sighs. “Crown Princess Katniss Josephine Marie Ingrid Everdeen, Countess of Monpezat. Future Queen of Denmark.”</p><p> </p><p>Another beat, then — “I… what?”</p><p> </p><p>“See?” she says wretchedly. “Now you are being strange about it. This is why I did not want to tell you.”</p><p> </p><p>His brain begins to catch up, and it’s probably not for the best. “Ex-<em>fucking</em>-cuse you,” he retorts. “<em>I’m</em> the one being strange? You’re the one just dropping these things on me with no warning.”</p><p> </p><p>“I warned you!” she protests. “I told you not to let it change your opinion about me!”</p><p> </p><p>“What, you thought I should be expecting you to say something like that? Fucking hell, I thought you were gonna say something like, like… I don’t know, that you don’t like pizza or something.”</p><p> </p><p>She quirks a brow. “That would change your opinion of me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah! Who the fuck doesn’t like pizza? It’s bread with cheese! It’s a perfect creation.”</p><p> </p><p>She sighs, tugs her cardigan tighter around herself. “Peeta, you are being ridiculous.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, God, I bet you Danish people like fucking <em>berries</em> on it or something —”</p><p> </p><p>“— Peeta!” She seizes his hands in her cold, slender ones and squeezes tight. “Calm down.”</p><p> </p><p>He sucks in a deep breath. And another one after that. “Yeah, okay. Calm. Calm.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you feel better?”</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a laugh that sounds like he’s being strangled. “Fucked if I know. You’re a fucking princess.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that really so strange?” She’s still holding his hands, her thumb running back and forth over his knuckles. “The strangest thing you could imagine?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I guess not. It’s just… it’s not like we get many princesses out here. I mean, I saw the Queen of England once, years ago. Fucked if I know what she was doing here, but a bunch of schools took their classes out to wave and shit. I have a friend, Delly — she makes the coffees and stuff — she gave the queen a posy of sour-grass flowers and thistles. It was really fucking weird, looking back on it now.”</p><p> </p><p>She quirks her head at him. “You are swearing a lot now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” He lets out another weirdly high-pitched laugh. “You, uh… you’re making me really fucking nervous.”</p><p> </p><p>“You were not swearing before.”</p><p> </p><p>“In my defence, that was prior to the fucking nuke you just dropped on me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Does it change things?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah. It changes everything, Your Highness.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am still Katniss. And you are still Peeta. It has not changed those things. And please… do not call me that here. I was not lying to you when I said I was little more than a tourist here.”</p><p> </p><p>“So…” he says slowly. Maybe a little too slowly. “Just… just Katniss, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she exclaims, squeezing his fingers in an almost bruising grip. “<em>Vær venlig</em>, just Katniss.” </p><p> </p><p>”You, uh... you might have to teach me some Danish if you’re gonna keep sprinkling it in our conversations like that.” </p><p> </p><p>She grins, as wide and bright and warm as a summer sun. ”I would be so happy to do so, Peeta.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When he goes to sleep that night… he can’t. He won’t. No matter how absolutely rooted he feels, there’s no possible way.</p><p> </p><p>Then again, there’s a pretty good chance that he’s asleep already, anyway. And having some really fucking weird dreams.</p><p> </p><p>She’s a princess.</p><p> </p><p>A real fucking princess.</p><p> </p><p>But that can’t be real, right? Dreams and dairy. They really don’t mix.</p><p> </p><p>A <em>princess</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He pulls his pillow over his face and screams into it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fucking shitballs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sleep, he decides, isn’t a thing that’s going to happen. He throws the blankets off himself and onto the floor, feeling around aimlessly for his phone, which he finds still plugged in, stuck halfway between his headboard and the wall.</p><p> </p><p>Is this a shitty, stalker thing to do? Because it definitely feels like it is.</p><p> </p><p>But she’s a public figure, right? There’s probably countless pages, official and non-official, dedicated to her.</p><p> </p><p>For the life of him, though, he can’t remember the list of names she rattled off, so he types in Princess Katniss and hopes for the best.</p><p> </p><p>And for the best it is. There’s plenty of pictures of her in pretty dresses at formal-looking events, but he probably should have considered that all the pages regarding the Danish royals would, in fact, be completely written in Danish.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a labourious process, copy-and-pasting chunks of text into Google Translate, but in the end, he gets the general gist. Apparently, she represented Denmark at the most recent Olympics as an archer but didn’t place on the podium. She studied a double degree in environmental sciences and international relations at uni. She even sings every year at some kind of Danish version of Carols in the Domain at Christmas each year. She was a guest judge in a final episode of the Danish version of MasterChef. She’s pretty heavily involved in charities helping war widows and orphaned children, and a group dedicated to saving and preserving endangered Danish plants.</p><p> </p><p>He drops his phone to the floor and thumps back against his pillows.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fucking.</em>
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</p><p>
  <em>Shitballs.</em>
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